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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23663149">Stranded at the Drive-In, Branded a Fool</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zorianne/pseuds/Zorianne'>Zorianne</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>French Revolution, Gen, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, Nobody gets branded, Well Hastur gets his nose broken but don't worry guys he's okay, nobody gets hurt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:55:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,284</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23663149</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zorianne/pseuds/Zorianne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I mean look. ‘M just doing my job, right?  Tempting.  Big tempter, me.  And you gotta admit, tempting an angel?  That’s <em>big</em>.”</p><p>The brand drew unmercifully, unwaveringly closer.</p><p>“But hey, if we’re gonna do this, the alchemical symbol for sulfur?  Really?”  Crowley snorted, desperately aiming for cool disdain. He lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Bit on the nose, innit?  What about a nice tattoo of the symbol for fire, eh?  Fire’s hellish.  Just a little triangle, very classy.”</p><p> </p><p>  <em>In which nobody gets branded and Hastur get a hug.</em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts">WhiteleyFoster</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/583054">“If my people hear I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble. And my lot do not send rude notes!”</a> by Whiteley Foster.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Whiteley Foster:  Hey, what if we had lots of Crowley whump?<br/>Other authors:  Yes yes, terrific idea, and what if we had lots of angst?<br/>Me:  OMG you guys are all amazing, this is fantastic, but consider:  what if we <i>didn’t</i>?<br/>Me:  Can I get a 'wahoo'?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>PARIS 1793</p><p>“Er, let’s not be hasty here.”</p><p><a id="return1" name="return1"></a>The leviathan cross at the end of the poker glowed yellow hot, white hot, blue hot.  Heat shimmers danced drunkenly in the air around it, a writhing bacchanal revelry of anticipated pain.  Crowley, who had never been a big fan of pain<sup>[<a href="#note1">1</a>]</sup>, desperately wanted to look away, to look at anything else in the small, dark Parisian hovel he found himself tied up in, but couldn’t for the life of him tear his gaze away from the horrifically mesmerizing incandescence of the hell brand.  A brand that could scorch and burn not just the body he was wearing, but his actual infernal essence.  And which was currently being held by a gleefully vindictive Duke Hastur, who’d caught him just after he’d finished what had turned out to be a very ill advised dinner of crepes with a certain angel.  The sulfurous smell of the cursed thing made his stomach roil. Or maybe it was the awful certainty that there was no way he was getting out of this unscathed.</p><p>Wouldn’t stop him from trying though.</p><p>“I mean look. ‘M just doing my job, right?  Tempting.  Big tempter, me.  And you gotta admit, tempting an angel?  That’s <em>big</em>.”</p><p>The brand drew unmercifully, unwaveringly closer.</p><p>“All right, all right, listen.”  Sweat beaded on Crowley’s brow.  Shit.  This wasn’t working.  The hellish ropes cutting into his wrists behind the chair were infuriatingly effective, and even if he somehow got them loose, overpowering Duke Hastur would have been astronomically unlikely at the best of times.  And this was certainly not the best of times.  Okay, deep breath, try to sound casual.  No skin in the game.  (Ha!)  “Hastur.  Buddy.  Hey, if you don’t <em>want </em>me to tempt any more angels, all you gotta do is say.  I’ll stop.  No harm done.  Just, y’know.  Heh.  Thought it’d be nice to take one of those feathery wankers down a notch, eh?  Amiright?”</p><p>Hastur’s black eyes showed every bit of his customary compassion.  Which is to say, none.  On the contrary, he seemed very enthusiastic about the whole proceeding.  A slow grin spread across his grimy face, and he sounded nearly gleeful when he spoke. “It’s far too late for excuses, Crowley.  I caught you hanging out with an angel, red handed.  Soon, I’m going to drag you back to Hell, and when I tell the others…” He chuckled evilly.</p><p>Oh. Oh that definitely wasn't good.</p><p>“But first,” Hastur twirled the hell brand, leaning closer, “I think you need to be reminded of your place.”</p><p><a id="return2" name="return2"></a><a id="return3" name="return3"></a>“Oh, yeah, no, I know my place.  Nooo need to worry about that, nope.  But hey, if we’re gonna do this, the alchemical symbol for sulfur?  Really?”  Crowley snorted, desperately aiming for cool disdain. He lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Bit on the nose, innit?  What about a nice tattoo of the symbol for fire<sup>[<a href="#note2">2</a>]</sup>, eh?  Fire’s hellish.  Just a little triangle, very classy.”  He felt the heat as the (frankly, unnecessarily large) leviathan cross moved closer to his skin.  “Or, OR, hey, if we’re really set on <em>branding</em>, and I gotta say, branding’s a little gauche, very fourteenth century if you ask me, but if we’re <em>set</em> on it, what about the, uh, the new moon symbol?  Very evil, the new moon!  Discreet little circle, almost a <em>dot</em> really<sup>[<a href="#note3">3</a>]</sup>, and what’s more hellish than a night with no moon?  No moon in hell.  All dark and spooky and--”</p><p>“SHUT! UP!”  Hastur yelled in frustration.  “Satan below!  You talk too blessed much!”  He grabbed Crowley’s shoulder with one hand, eliciting an involuntary yelp from the terrified-but-trying-to-hide-it demon, and held the brand ready in the other.  “Now, squirming will only make it hurt worse, so squirm as much as you want.  Ready?  Three, two, o--”.</p><p>A very polite knock sounded at the door.     </p><p>The incongruity of the sound momentarily startled both demons into complete stillness. </p><p>After a long moment, a second, marginally less polite knock sounded, breaking the frozen tableau.  Crowley’s wide yellow eyes were finally able to look away from the ominously glowing iron, at least briefly, flickering between the brand and the innocuous wooden door.  He offered quietly, “You, er, want me to get that?  Be happy to, if you'd just--”</p><p>“Shut up,” growled Hastur, also quietly.  Lowering the brand, much to Crowley’s relief, he slunk suspiciously to the door, putting his ear to it briefly.  He drew back and glared at Crowley, like it was somehow Crowley’s fault someone was interrupting them.</p><p>Well.  He might be right.  Though, Crowley really, truly, hoped he wasn’t.  Surely it was just some lost human.  He shrugged at Hastur, doing his best to look innocent.   </p><p>A third, slow, resounding knock rattled the door on its hinges.  </p><p>Hastur, readying the branding iron like a club, softly slid the bolt back and reached for the door knob.</p><p>The door was flung violently open, smashing Hastur in the nose.  He stumbled back with the force of it, dropped the branding iron, tripped, and fell on his rear.</p><p>An <em>extremely</em> angry Aziraphale stood fuming in the doorway.  </p><p>“YOU!” the vengeful angel shouted, pointing an accusatory finger straight at Crowley.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note1" name="note1"></a>[<a href="#return1">1</a>] Or of Bacchanalia.  Though he’d found the more wine-focused Dionysian celebrations of early Greece to be quite enjoyable.</p><p><a id="note2" name="note2"></a>[<a href="#return2">2</a>] △</p><p><a id="note3" name="note3"></a>[<a href="#return3">3</a>] ●</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Me?!” squeaked Crowley, baffled.</p><p>“YOU!  You, you, you... vile <em>serpent</em>!” the angel shrilled.  “How <em>dare</em> you try to trick me?  How dare you try to tempt me into sin!?  I am an <em>angel</em>!”</p><p>“Um,” was all Crowley could manage.  What the heavens was going on? </p><p>Crowley had been fervently hoping it <em>wasn’t</em> Aziraphale at the door.  Because Crowley had been worried (<em>not</em> hopeful) that if the angel was there he might do something incredibly reckless (<em>not</em> heartwarming), like trying to rescue him.  Aziraphale could generally take care of himself (recent events in the Bastille notwithstanding), but Hastur… well, Hastur was a Duke of Hell, and had significantly more raw power than the two of them combined.  Though, to Aziraphale’s credit, Hastur did currently seem to be a Duke of Hell with a broken nose.</p><p>“First, you <em>snake</em>,” Aziraphale hissed at him angrily, drawing his attention again. “Tempting me to sloth!?  You talked me into letting <em>you</em> miracle <em>me</em> out of prison, when I am <em>perfectly capable</em> of working my own miracles!  As though a little work ever hurt anyone!” Aziraphale scoffed, practically vibrating with anger. </p><p>Besides which, Crowley thought distractedly, even if Aziraphale somehow pulled off a rescue here without hurting himself, Crowley was pretty sure being rescued by an angel would not <em>reduce</em> the amount of trouble he was already in with Hell. Nope, definitely the opposite.</p><p>“Then, you took me out for dinner!” the angel accused. “Gluttony!  It’s so obvious, now.  Oh, how did I not see that immediately?  ‘Oh no, angel, I’m not very hungry, you can eat my crepes as well.  Here, have some more dessert.’” Aziraphale mimicked.</p><p>But for all the ways he could have imagined Aziraphale's interference going horrifically wrong, Crowley mused, the angel bursting in and <em>yelling</em> at him for <em>taking him to dinner</em> was... well, honestly, it wasn't a scenario he’d ever anticipated. </p><p>“And then!  Bragging about your accomplishments!  The commendations you’ve gotten, how <em>cleverly</em> you tempted all the humans to more and more bloodshed here.  Were you trying to arouse my <em>envy</em>?” the angel spat.  “Hmm? <em>Greed</em> for commendations of my own?  Appealing to my <em>pride</em> by flattering me that I deserved more!?”</p><p>Even Hastur looked a little stunned by the angel’s rant, Crowely absently noted.  Well, not so stunned that he’d forgotten to heal his nose.  That was good.  Noses tended to bleed everywhere. Terribly messy things, noses.</p><p>“Oooh!”  Aziraphale's eyes grew wide at a sudden realization.  He looked aghast. “And now I’m experiencing wrath!  You... you utter <em>fiend</em>!” he all but screeched. </p><p>Huh.  That was six of the seven deadly sins.  Crowley would have been impressed with himself if any of it had actually been true.  That only left, what, breaking the sabbath?  No, that didn't sound right.  He frowned.  Wearing mixed fabrics?</p><p>“And to think,” the angel’s voice trembled with emotion, “when I came here tonight, I was on the verge of taking you up on your offer of… of…” his voice trailed off in horror, before concluding in a scandalized whisper, “...a <em>nightcap</em>!”  A look of disgust crossed his face, and he turned away from Crowley with a shudder.</p><p><a id="return4" name="return4"></a>Well, that was just unfair, Crowley thought indignantly.  He’d never in his life offered Aziraphale a nightcap.  It was always the other way around.  Never mind that their nightcaps were much less salacious and more alcoholic than the angel seemed to be implying.  Oh!  He mentally smacked himself on the forehead. Lust, that was the seventh!<sup>[<a href="#note4">4</a>]</sup></p><p>“Oh! Hello there,” said Aziraphale with mild surprise, apparently just now noticing the rather gobsmacked Duke still sitting on the floor.</p><p>The friendly greeting seemed to break whatever spell the angel’s furious tirade had put Hastur under.  The Duke hastily scrambled to his feet, snarling, “Now look here, you f--”.</p><p>He was interrupted by a thoroughly unexpected, unwanted, and altogether undemonic hug.  </p><p>Hastur shrieked and flailed backwards, wrenching himself away from the clearly unhinged angel.  “What the kingdom come is <em>wrong</em> with you!” he demanded, thoroughly scandalized. "Are you mad?!"</p><p>“Oh, my good fellow, <em>you</em> have done me such a great kindness.”  Aziraphale beamed at Hastur, turning the full force of his angelic gratitude on the poor demon.</p><p>“What?” croaked Hastur, horrified.  “Kindness?!  No, no, that’s not what--”</p><p>“I simply must thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your timely rescue,” Aziraphale gushed.  “Why, without your intervention, I would have thoroughly succumbed to this... this <em>miscreant’s</em> wiles.”  He glared at Crowley.</p><p>Crowley, still rather miffed about the whole nightcap thing, glared back.</p><p>As the angel’s words sank in, a strangled gurgle came from Hastur’s still-open mouth, pulling Aziraphale’s attention back to the unfortunate Duke.</p><p>“I am truly in your debt,”  Aziraphale said earnestly, stepping forward.</p><p>Hastur promptly stepped back.</p><p>“How can I possibly repay you?” the angel mused, before brightening. “Oh, I know!  Who is your superior, er, inferior, my dear fellow?  I shall write them a lovely note so they know how helpful you’ve been.”</p><p>“NO!!” screeched Hastur, finding his voice.  He held out his hands to fend off the implacably grateful angel.  “No, no!  Not necessary.  In fact,” he said desperately, “do whatever you want to <em>him</em>, but the best way to repay <em>me</em> is to completely forget I was ever involved.”</p><p>Crowley thought he was <em>finally</em> starting to figure out what was going on.  Yeah, he was probably a little slow on the uptake today, but he blamed it on all the threats of imminent torture.  Really, that was bound to rattle a person.</p><p>“So modest,” Aziraphale sighed at Hastur approvingly.  “Well, I must insist you at least tell me your name, my humble ‘Good Samaritan,’" he said, accompanying the appellation, much to Crowley's chagrin, with an adorably happy little wiggle, "in case my superiors want to know who to thank.” </p><p>And then, and <em>then</em>, the ridiculous angel flat out <em>batted his eyelashes</em> at the Duke.  Crowley just about choked on his tongue.  Go-  Sata-  <em>Somebody</em> help him, he’d never loved the devious bastard more.</p><p>“Uh, <em>my</em> name?”  Hastur’s eyes nearly bugged out of his skull, looking, to Crowley’s delight, even more terrified than when Asmodeus had drawn his name for last year's Secret Santa.  “Has- Hhh--"  Hastur paused.  "... Ligur.”  Hastur nodded decisively, then disappeared through the floor faster than a bat into hell.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note4" name="note4"></a>[<a href="#return4">4</a>] It should be noted that Hastur didn't know either the regular or metaphorical definitions of the word 'nightcap'.  However, the implications of 'time of darkness' and 'something to put on your head' rather reminded him of the slightly baffling and altogether alarming Secret Santa gift he'd received last year, and by taking three wrong turns he accidentally arrived at the right conclusion that the angel was referring to some sort of lustful temptation.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale and Crowley stood frozen, for a long, breathless moment, staring at the spot where Hastur had vanished.</p><p>“Is he gone?” Aziraphale finally whispered. </p><p>“Uh,” Crowley closed his eyes and concentrated tensely, feeling for demonic presences.    “Yeah,” he finally said, letting out a relieved woosh of breath.  “Can’t sense him anywhere.”</p><p>“Oh, thank God.” Aziraphale closed his eyes briefly and sagged against the door frame.  Almost instantly, he popped back up and hurried over to Crowley, vanishing the offending ropes with a snap.  “How are you, my dear?  Are you quite all right?” </p><p>“Guh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine.  Saved my hide there.  Literally.”  Shaking a bit from the sudden adrenaline crash, Crowley stumbled a half step as he stood.</p><p>“Steady on,” murmured the angel, reaching out to stabilize the wobbly demon.  “Oh, your poor wrists!”  The raw welts from the ropes were healed with a thought.</p><p>“Good timing there, by the way.  Very dramatic entrance.”</p><p>“Well, I did learn from the best,” Aziraphale said with a wry smile.</p><p>Crowley snorted.  He took a deep breath, then a few more.  The terror was slowly fading.  Against all expectation, they’d somehow made it through this mess unharmed.  He doubted Hastur would ever bring up the incident again, unless it was to threaten him to keep quiet about it.  He snapped his fingers, setting his torn shirt collar to rights and settling a pair of dark tinted glasses on his nose.  “I guess this makes us even then, eh?”  He quirked an eyebrow at his unassuming rescuer. </p><p>“Oh, absolutely <em>not</em>, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said, aghast, but with a twinkle in his eye.  “I’m quite certain that you owe me a <em>very</em> nice lunch for this.”</p><p>Crowley laughed, delighted.  “Absolutely, angel,” he conceded.  “I don’t suppose you’d consider a rain cheque on that, though?  After all, we did just have crepes.”</p><p>“Yes, I should rather think so,” agreed the angel easily.  “I believe I’ve had my fill of those for a while.  And you may have had a point,” he said with a prim huff. “Perhaps somewhere <em>not</em> in the throes of revolution might be preferable.”</p><p>With a mock flourish, Crowley held open the door and bowed Aziraphale through with a grin. “Anywhere you want to go, angel.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So hey, I'm not sure if this <em>quite</em> fulfills the original contest prompt, but after I'd read about a dozen or so of the prompt fills (and oh my gosh, you guys, can I just say that's some fantastic whump and angst you all have written!) my brain said whoa, whump overload, we (and by 'we' I mean 'I') desperately need at least <em>one</em> fic where Crowley manages to not get branded at all.   So yeah, maaaaybe this doesn't quite explain why Crowley decided he needed holy water in 1862, but hey, at least now we know why Crowley owed Aziraphale lunch from 1793!  (Wahoo!)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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